


Can you hear me?

by xcharlieslove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Holocaust, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcharlieslove/pseuds/xcharlieslove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nazi Germany, 1936.<br/>Jewish Sherlock and John have been on the run from the Nazis for three years.<br/>They are finally caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can you hear me?

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfiction. The idea came to me after watching The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. It probably isn't very good, but please enjoy.

It was later known as the Holocaust. One of the largest blemishes in our World’s history. In the three years since the Nazis had invaded Germany, every Jew had been captured and entrapped in concentration camps like wild animals who have done no right in the world. Among the Jews were the Gypsies and the gays. Our Sherlock Holmes, World’s only consulting detective, and John Watson, one of the best doctors Germany had to offer, just happened to be two out of the three. 

"It's okay. Everything is going to be alright. We are going to stay together, alright?" John whispers to Sherlock, holding his naked body close. John reaches up with his left hand and cups Sherlock's cheek, gently pushing a stray curl behind his ear, his other arm busy wrapping itself tighter around Sherlock's waist. John tilts his head upward and rests his forehead against Sherlock's, eyes closed, feeling Sherlock’s tense, halting breaths against his lips. His breath, along with the air stinging their skin, was cold, despite all of the other bodies crammed closely to theirs.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you hear me?” John asks in hushed tones. “Yes, John. I hear you.” Came Sherlock’s strained, gravelly voice. That’s all that needed to be said for the moment. That simple transaction held every emotion, thought and word either of them could ever hope to tell the other.

John would begin by saying “I hear you, can you hear me, Sherlock?” Sherlock would reply “Yes, John. I can hear you.” It had been their way of saying “I love you. I am here. I am listening to you because you are the only thing in my life worth listening to.” It was also a way of ensuring that Sherlock was listening, and had actually _heard_ what John had said. In the many years that they had known and loved each other, from the first time they made love in Sherlock’s old flat to the first time they had had a serious fight over trivial matters, John had learned that Sherlock was the most amazing man in all the world, but the worst at listening. For Sherlock it was always talking, being heard and listened to. But never actually _hearing_.  As soon as the war had begun, however, John came up with that simple yet effective way of being heard. Which is what led them to be able to communicate and express their love publicly without risk of being ousted.

 According to the world now, they were a disease, a mistake among even the Jews, just something God had created as another way of punishing the earth for its sins. Between being castrated, imprisoned, or just murdered in cold-blood, it may be said that gay men and women were treated horrifyingly, but Jewish gay men and women were, simply put, an abomination. Even so, Sherlock and John held on to the little hope they had that if they managed to hide their relationship, they just might be able to make it through, and out of, their incarceration into the camps. But again, neither of them held on to too much hope.

John looks up into Sherlock's eyes, and immediately wishes he hadn't. What he sees there, in those faded blue eyes, the ones that used to be so bright, resemble a puppy that had been abused his whole life and had stopped eating, hoping itself to starve to death and end the pain. John can't handle looking for long. He is forced to close his eyes once again, feeling the tears begin to squeeze themselves between his clamped eyelids. Sherlock's eyes, once radiant and so full of life, always so completely filled with the joy of just being alive, held everything John has never seen in them before, and never wished to see again: fear, resolve, and the look of being beaten, defeated.

John, however, shows no outward fear, no doubts about what's going on around them. He used to be a soldier, for God's sake; he can handle dying. He had known he wasn't going to make it out of this war alive for months now, and he had accepted that. But what he could never-would never- accept, is Sherlock, the bloody brilliant Sherlock Holmes, dying in such a disgraceful and humiliating way, and John not being able to do a single thing about it.

 It doesn't matter now. John ventures a guess that it never has, and now it never will. No matter how strongly they had fought, how smartly they had hid, or even how thoroughly they had promised each other it wouldn't go down like this...None of it mattered. Because now they had to accept the fact that there indeed was a bigger and stronger power out there. One that could easily capture and exterminate the great Sherlock Holmes, World's only consulting detective, and his partner, in all sense of the word, John Watson...both of whom just happened to be gay, and born into Jewish families.

They had tried everything to try to keep hidden away from the Nazis. Everything from hiding in basements, to trying to renounce their beliefs, which neither of them had been very dedicated to in the first place. But the damage had been done. They had made it no more than a three years before they were caught. They were dragged out of the abandoned house's basement by their hair, Sherlock didn't fight. They had been prepared for this for some time now.  But of course, John fought back, his ex-military standing would not let him simply sit back and watch those disgusting pigs in black uniforms, red swastika worn proudly on their arms, touch his Sherlock. John did everything in his power to rip free and return over to where Sherlock was being manhandled roughly up the creaking stairs.

 He momentarily broke his hold and bounded up the steps to Sherlock, taking Sherlock’s face between his hands and whispering “I can hear you, Sherlock. Can you-” But John was swiftly cut off as large, gloved hands grasped his neck from behind and threw him down six of those rotting steps and to the floor, where he did not stir again.

 “John! Yes! John, I can hear-John!” Sherlock was unable to finish as he felt a hand travel into his hair, wrenching his skull back relentlessly, making him look up from John’s unmoving body to see one of the men point their gun towards John’s head.

But instead of being shot, as Sherlock most feared, the man raised his fist and brought the butt of the gun down on the back of John’s skull, ensuring that John was indeed unconscious.  Which caused Sherlock to scream, his husky voice ringing through the empty basement, and lurch forward with all the might his slender form would let him. But instead of restraining Sherlock tighter, the men simply dropped their holds, and Sherlock went tumbling down the stairs after his John, momentarily silencing his struggles.

Arching his back in pain, Sherlock twisted his head to the side, neck straining to get a sight of his doctor. John’s still motionless body was being lifted by two men. As they walked past him, struggling with John’s dead weight, one of John’s arms fell out of hold, which Sherlock immediately scrambled to grip; just to check John’s pulse. He had to make sure John was alive. John had to be alive, he just had to. There was no such a thing as just Sherlock. It had always been, and always would be _, Sherlock and John_.

Ah. There it was. A pulse. Even after being reassured that John was still alive, Sherlock held on to John’s wrist. No force in the world could have made him let go…Is what Sherlock had wanted to believe, but what he had come to realize in the last three years, two months, and 47 minutes since they had gone on the run from the invaders, was that a force that strong did, in fact, exist, and that force was trying it’s damnedest to try and take his John away from him.

But oh how he wished he could break both of the Nazis' necks for even laying their filthy hands on his John. How dare they.

_How dare they._

Due to the lack of food, water, sleep, and his trip down the staircase, Sherlock’s vision quickly began blur, leaving him light-headed and dizzy after just reaching for John’s wrist. Still, he continued to clutch John’s hand as tightly as his, frankly dying, body would let him. Because what is life if you can’t be with the one you love? Sherlock could no longer claim that he was smarter than every other small minded being. He had lost that privilege the second they had been caught. Since Mycroft and Moriarty were already dead, either gassed or shot, because even Sherlock could not tell what had ended his elder brother and the master criminal mind. Sherlock had only been the smartest man left by default, and that would never do. And since the only other thing he had ever loved besides his mind was John, Sherlock had made it his life mission to protect John, which was all he had left to fight for. And since they had taken his John, Sherlock had, and was, nothing.

His out stretched hand dropped to the ground and his vision went black.

As soon as John had awoken, alone, but at the same time surrounded by people, he had once again began fighting with all his might, searching for Sherlock, because they had to be together, Sherlock had heard him, which means they had to be together. He later found out that Sherlock had also been fighting his way through wall after wall of bodies looking for him. Once he and Sherlock had found each other again, John was none too pleased with the bruises smattering Sherlock’s back, arms and legs. Their reunion, which took place in a dark, crowded room, where the walls were lined with hooks, and benches were in rows down the center of the room, consisted of sloppily hidden kisses, hands running through hair, over skin, and two distinctly different voices uttering “Can you hear me? I can hear you.”

Everything happened so fast after that. Too fast for any man’s or woman’s exhausted and mistreated mind to process. Man after suit clad man lumbered into the room, looking disgusted at the men and women before them. Then the men began yelling, shouting at the top of their lungs to be heard over the other voices of the frightened prisoners. The Nazi men were shouting “Shower time! Come on you lot, strip!”

 Many were fooled by the pretense of the suited men yelling “strip!” and armed men screaming “showers!” Few stopping to consider why this was the first shower they had gotten in months, and some, the ones who had completely given up, who had stopped caring about their own and others’ lives, really not caring why.

John was hesitant to remove any of his clothing, and Sherlock, at first, simply refused. Sherlock knew. He knew exactly what was about to happen to the four hundred or so Jews and Gypsies. He also knew exactly what was about to happen to him and his John. The look of “knowing” is what gave John his hesitance. Sherlock and John locked eyes; Sherlock frowned and shook his head gently. John’s eyes widened slowly. They both knew what was about to happen next.

They were led into the small metal room under the deception of a hot shower. Which had made approximately four-hundred and eighty-nine Jews out of the total of five-hundred and twenty pliable and eager to follow, according to Sherlock once he had been able to count the shaved heads that were bobbing to and fro. But the thirty-two others, including John and Sherlock, had known or had an idea of why this was all wrong. They were both naked now; as well as all of the others. They were forced to leave their pajama-like outfits in the room with all the hooks, as well as their small caps and black boots. Our boys were scared to death, even if they refused to tell each other that. Everyone else in that retched room were frightened too, even the ones who were deceived. The only difference between Sherlock, John, and everyone else, was that Sherlock and John were quiet.  Not screaming at the tops of their lungs, like most of the others, or banging their fists and kicking any part of the wall they could reach.

John was suddenly roused back to the present when Sherlock began to gently shake his head left and right, rubbing his forehead against John's before pulling away from where they had been resting against each other. John opened his eyes and hesitatingly looked into Sherlock's, which had tears taking a leisure stroll down his cheeks and onto his lips, where they settled between them. The tears looked as foreign on the man’s face as stars must feel when they fall from the sky, only to land on this horrid earth. John's hand that was already on Sherlock's cheek, slid down to the side of his neck and then brought Sherlock’s head to rest in the junction between John’s neck and shoulder.  John then wrapped both arms round Sherlock's back and held tighter until he feared Sherlock may not be able to breath, but still, Sherlock did not complain, only did the same back, just as strong of a hold, while burying his nose in John’s neck further, breathing in as much of his scent as he could.

 On the outside Sherlock did not look scared or fearful to any of the four hundred or so other bare Jews smashed against the windowless room, and against Sherlock and John themselves; packed tightly. But John new better. John knew _Sherlock_. Sherlock was internally screaming. To be so out of control of his and John's fates, and knowing what is to happen to them, but not wanting to believe it, Sherlock's mind was caving in on itself. His brain was having seizures, short circuiting out of control and then trying to restart itself, but ultimately failing. For once in his life, Sherlock did not pride himself on having infinite knowledge.

Sherlock's back was hunched, his shoulders and head seeming to fold over John as he held him close, his face buried in John's neck, as if trying to shield John from the inevitable. There, they stood waiting. Sherlock was trembling, his ragged breathing interlaced with whines and John could feel Sherlock's spine and ribs through his skin, which made his tremors all the more noticeable. It couldn’t end like this.

"Sherlock," John whispered into his ear, trying to make his soothing voice heard above all of the ear-piercing shrieks and poundings. "Sherlock, I need you to do me a favor, alright? I need you to cry. Just let it out, love." John said, breathing into Sherlock's ear. "Don't hold it back, please. Cry until you can't cry any more, if that's what it takes for you to feel better. You have been so brave, our whole lives together, you were always the strong one." he said, trying his damned hardest to not let his tears sound in his voice. To give him some more time to catch his breath he pulls back the slightest, pressing a small but lingering kiss to Sherlock's temple. "You can do it, love. I'm here, forever, you and me.”

 If Sherlock's head hadn't of been buried, almost clinging to the side of John's neck, John wouldn't have heard the sharp intake of breath, quickly followed by a gurgling sound. Seconds later Sherlock was sobbing heart-breaking, chest wracking sobs as he clung to John's naked form tightly, his over-grown nails catching in the skin on John’s back. “That’s my love. Good boy. I can hear you, Sherlock. Can you hear me?”

He cried what tears he had left, he cried the tears that John wouldn't let breach his eyelids, and he cried for his brother, their land lady Mrs. Hudson, and for D.I Lestrade, who had all been offed by the Nazis without a second thought. “Yes, John. I can hear you.”

But most of all he cried because strangely...it felt glorious, amazing, fantastic. After months of silence and only speaking through body motions, after years of being expressionless and heartless, after a lifetime of not letting himself feel...he let go. He believed his John would be there to catch him when he fell, so he did. He completely crumbled. Sherlock cried, and didn’t stop until the end. He just couldn’t.  All the while, John held him tight. One hand back in his hair, the other wound securely round his thin, breakable waist, never to let go. John held onto Sherlock, and Sherlock held onto John. One never complete without the other.

There was a quiet sound. Like the piping in an old building finally bursting. The sound of running liquid. People began to scream and clutch at each other in agony. Smoke and a rancid smell began to fill the metal room. Still, our Sherlock and John were silent.

If anyone were to ever look back to one of the bleakest moments in the World’s history, if they looked long enough, stared hard enough, they would see the story of Sherlock Holmes, the World’s only consulting detective, and John Watson, one of the best doctors Germany ever had to offer, and they would realize that these particular men, in this particular story had always only had one possible ending. Together.

A single tear rolled silently down John’s cheek.

_Can you hear me?_


End file.
